


Thick Cell Walls

by PeabodyTypes



Category: Casino Royale (2006), James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, James Bond - Ian Fleming
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 02:42:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeabodyTypes/pseuds/PeabodyTypes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Le Chiffre was taken into custody by MI6 after the Casino Royale incident. Drabble where we see Le Chiffre's entrance into the MI6 detention wing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cold Cell Walls

The man known as Le Chiffre shuffled down the hall, soft slipper-shoes padding quietly on the linoleum. His hands and feet were cuffed – a joke, as if anyone thought his physical strength could outmatch the burly guards that accompanied him. However, it made the higher-ups in MI6 feel more secure. It was, after all, protocol, and every government agency loved their protocol. The short-sleeved tan jumpsuit, so unlike the man’s usual black formal suits, made him look oddly small. The drawstring bag clutched in one hand contained the things he’d been given for his stay in the MI6 detention block: soap, toilet paper, toothbrush and paste, towel, socks. Perhaps he could find something to make out of them later, but, Le Chiffre thought as the guards unlocked his chains, not now. The cell door closed behind him, and the guards disappeared down the hall. He was alone.

Well, as alone as one could be in a detention block full of prisoners.

He dropped the bag by the cot and lay on the unyielding mattress. Nothing but time to think, now. The accountant folded his hands over his stomach, stared up at the white concrete ceiling and let his thoughts wander.

Hours later, the tapping of feet snapped him out of his reverie. He didn’t bother to get up; instead, he merely turned his head to see who might pass his cell.

The figure didn’t pass. The mighty double-oh agent James Bond came to a stop in front of his cell, besuited and none the worse for wear after their encounter with his hands jauntily tucked into his pockets. Cocky git.

They stared at each other for a while, two pairs of cool eyes trying to read each other. Finally, Le Chiffre spoke, sharp and no-nonsense as always.

“What is it.”

Bond moved, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a silver inhaler. “The labs got this back. Turns out there’s nothing in it but asthma medication, so you’re allowed it.” He bent and tossed the piece into the cell, through the bars and just inside the door.

Le Chiffre scoffed, turning his head away. Of course there was nothing else in it. It was simply MI6 higher-ups being paranoid. He tried to ignore the irritating agent.

The short sleeves of the jumpsuit left his forearms exposed, and a flash of ink on his arm must have caught Bond’s eye. “What’s that on your arm, then?”

Le Chiffre glanced down instinctively; the line of numbers tattooed on his arm were no different than they were every day, but apparently Bond didn’t think the accountant was the type to take the ink. “My name.”

Bond scoffed, a sharp sigh through his nose. Le Chiffre – the number. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. “Why?”

The banker didn’t answer.

“Alright, I get it. I’ll be in tomorrow for interrogation.”

Silence.

The sound of footsteps faded away, back down the hall. Le Chiffre was left to his thoughts again, now centered – most unwelcomely – on the numbers stained into his skin. A souvenir of his past, of the prison camp where he’d lost his name and his fear, and become a new person. A mark that branded him a stateless displaced person and gotten him a passport through Europe. A mark that meant very little now.

He swung his legs off the bed and stood, crossing the cell in two steps to pick up the inhaler. It puffed quietly as Le Chiffre returned to his seat, chemicals filling his lungs and relaxing his chest. He laid back down, closing his eyes to enjoy the sensation of breathing openly. It had not been a particularly enjoyable day, and tomorrow would doubtlessly be just as long. Perhaps a rest was in order before he planned anything.


	2. Lunch Trays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Le Chiffre finds prison to be incredibly dull and does not play well with others.

He was allowed out for lunch, along with the rest of the block. Former-criminal banker Le Chiffre, clad in the tan, short-sleeved jumpsuit that was regulation prisonwear for MI6 detention guests, followed the trail of inmates to the cafeteria. He moved mindlessly, brain reeling from hours of staring at blank walls. There was nothing to do here. His mind churned incessantly over scraps of information, but there was no news, nothing of interest to stimulate his stagnating intellect. _Bored._

He rounded the corner. _Although, that was the point of prison, wasn’t it?_ To bore one into becoming a normal, law-abiding citizen, or to inspire fear of recapture and the penance of boredom again.

The cafeteria, a large, white room, was filled with people eating, the sounds of conversations and plastic silverware bouncing off the concrete walls. Along one wall, prisoners shuffled along, receiving their slop like so many orderly pigs. Le Chiffre joined the line.

Plastic tray, plastic bowl, plastic silverware at one station. Indecipherable mess of sludge spooned over at another station. Water and herbal tea at the next. The same every day.

Le Chiffre sat alone at the end of one of the long tables. _Drudgery._ People at the next table were talking about trading cigarettes. The criminals farther down the bench were speaking about movies they’d seen. _Dull._ He looked down at his meal. A bowl of brown, with vaguely orange bits in it that could be carrot. It doubtlessly had all the nutrients necessary to keep him healthy for trial, but it could not by any stretch of the imagination be labeled enticing. He picked up his spoon anyway.

Halfway through Le Chiffre’s solitary meal, another prisoner slid into the bench on the other side of the table. “So, you’re the famous Le Chiffre.”

Le Chiffre ignored him.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” the man drawled. “The high-and-mighty banker, always looking down on people like me... Well, I suppose you’re down on our level, now.”

No answer.

“You got yourself caught? Really, Chiffy? They’d told me you were smart.”

Le Chiffre set down his spoon. “I would like to be left alone.” It was all he ever asked. To be left alone while he did what he was best at. To live his life silently, working his own way through this existence.

The man grinned, apparently encouraged by the reaction. “Aw, come on, Chiffenade. I’m only teasing.”

“I do not find it humourous.”

“I’m only saying,” the man continued, smirking as Le Chiffre looked up. His dark eyes glittered malevolently in the buzzing electric lights. “If you were really as good as you say you are, you wouldn’t be in here.”

Le Chiffre was, most certainly, good. He also was, most certainly, not interested in being talked down to. He gripped his plastic tray irritably, stood, and began to walk away. He would find somewhere else to eat.

“Guess you really aren’t much of a genius after all-” _Wham._ The man fell backward, off his seat. The nearest tables quieted, looking around at the commotion. Le Chiffre’s bowl clattered noisily across the ground, spilling its contents everywhere. The banker had slammed his tray into his mocker’s face and now stood, tray still clutched in his hand, eyes blazing with cold anger. The man sat up, blood streaming down his face and his nose flattened at an odd angle. He touched it gingerly, wincing. It was clearly broken.

A terrible howl resonated around the cafeteria hall, and the man surged to his feet, launching himself at Le Chiffre. The banker pulled back, trying to dodge, but the man glanced a blow off his shoulder, which threw him off balance. He stumbled backward, then lunged out with his lunch tray again. People were moving, avoiding the fight, and the guards stationed in the cafeteria were shouting for them to stop. The tray made contact with the side of the man’s head, and he yelped again, throwing punch after punch toward Le Chiffre’s face. One missed; another hit his jaw, and then the guards were shoving them apart, wrenching the tray from Le Chiffre’s hands, roughly elbowing them away from the crowd and threatening penalties if they didn’t stop fighting. Le Chiffre let himself be bundled away, out of the cafeteria. He could hear the other man still shouting, being roughhoused out behind him and down another hall, until only faint echoes were left.

He was escorted roughly through the detention wing’s halls, arms secured behind his back by the guard’s firm grip, and deposited back in his cell. The door closed behind him, and the beep of the electronic lock signified the end of Le Chiffre’s time outside for the day.

#

Three days later, he was regretting his decision. He hadn’t been allowed out of his cell, and meals consisting of brown slop were brought to him, shoved through a slot in the door after the rest of the detention wing had shuffled past to the cafeteria. He hadn’t thought prison could be any more boring. He had been wrong. Apparently the repercussions for mealtime brawls were crushing monotony and boredom.

Le Chiffre lay on his cot, hands folded over his stomach as he stared at the ceiling. He could now hold this pose for hours at a time. Mentally, at least. When he got up, his muscles would protest, but the monotony and the stillness helped calm his mind to a reasonable rate. It would slowly settle into a dull rhythm, instead of constantly, unstoppably computing numbers and processing data. His mind would not stop, but after a while he would stop caring.


End file.
